


the same but still brand new

by reliquiaen



Category: Plague Tale: Innocence (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-09 04:53:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20503451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reliquiaen/pseuds/reliquiaen
Summary: "The way Mélie’s smile quirks this time is a new one, a little surprised, maybe dangerous. She’d thought after so many years there wouldn’t be much left to discover about Mélie, but this makes her squirm."we have a fake date au here lads. ft pining, bed sharing, and plenty of being oblivious. ur welcome





	the same but still brand new

It starts with a favour: “Amicia, I need you to come with me this time. To La Rochelle.”

That’s back south, into Aquitaine. Beatrice has been making that trip every few weeks for the last four or five months now. With the plague well and truly behind them at this point, she seems to think it’s high time they remind folks of the de Runes; and even if they have managed to eke out a perfectly modest existence here, she wants her children to have the best possible life they can and to her mind that means not being almost-farmers living in a self-imposed exile.

To Beatrice, that means having an estate again. It means being able to afford the occasional spices or perhaps even some time for relaxing.

So maybe it really starts when Beatrice first has Lucas drive her down to La Rochelle. Or when Amicia and Hugo come back from the market and he tells Beatrice about this very pretty wooden toy the carpenter had made in between commissions and how badly he wanted it, but they couldn’t afford it. Or when Mélie called her princess for the nth time and Beatrice couldn’t argue when Amicia corrected her saying, “There’s nothing noble about me anymore.”

Maybe it starts when Amicia blinks dumbly at her mother’s request and asks, “Why?”

Maybe when Beatrice replies, “To properly reclaim our place among the lords and ladies we need to forge stronger relations. There’s a gala next week, it would be a splendid time to meet some of the lords your age.”

Maybe it starts when Amicia’s brain makes (perfectly reasonable) leaps regarding what her mother meant by that _precisely_, and she blurts, “No! I’m… What about Mélie? We’re…”

Her mother’s expression flashes through confusion and then understanding, surprise and then acceptance, to settle on this funny little soft pleased smile. (Amicia isn’t quite sure what realisation her mother has come to, but given what Beatrice says, it’s clearly not what she was trying to say, which is simply that she and Mélie were going on a trip a few towns over to _acquire_ a proper wooden toy for Hugo’s approaching tenth birthday.)

Instead, Beatrice says, “I see… Well, bring her with also. She deserves to be nobility after all the help she’s given us. And you.” There’s a twinkle in her eyes that’s very pointed and when she leaves, Amicia is still trying to wrap her head around that conversation to notice.

But it’s not until much later that evening that Amicia finally grasps what conclusion her mother came to. And by then, it’s too late to correct her.

When she does, she drops her currying brush and races towards the house. She finds Mélie sitting on the floor of their shared room darning her second tunic and for a moment, she stands in the doorway, watching, wondering. When Mélie looks up, spots her, smiles, Amicia feels her whole body stop, her lungs, her heart, her head. (Maybe she doesn’t _want_ to correct her mother’s impression. The thought sends her reeling for a moment but doesn’t leave her alone.)

It’s Mélie’s soft smile at first, the one she uses so rarely and only with three people, but the longer Amicia stands there not doing anything, the more it quirks up into her cheeky, crooked little grin. “Can I help you, princess?” She never did stop calling her that.

“Mother thinks we’re… _involved_.” The words trip out of her mouth before her brain quite starts working again. (And the newly conscious thought in the back of her head adds, _maybe we should be_.)

Mélie’s smile widens slowly and she starts laughing. “She _what_? Why?”

Proving that her head still hasn’t caught up with her mouth _or_ this conversation, Amicia says, “I told her.”

The expression that crosses Mélie’s face at that is incomprehensible. “You…?”

“Well, alright,” _finally_ her brain starts working, “she wants to take me to La Rochelle next time to socialise and I said something about you, and _she_ thought that meant we were… Anyway, I just meant that we were going to get something for Hugo, and she misinterpreted it, but I couldn’t correct her because I didn’t realise what she’d assumed until later and so now it’s too late and will you come with to La Rochelle?”

Displaying more patience than she has for a while, Mélie waits out her babbling. It isn’t until Amicia takes a breath at the end that she says, “You want me to pretend to be your suitor, so you don’t have to explain to your mother that you’d rather steal things than go to a ball? Is that it?”

Amicia blinks at her. “Yes. That’s… yes.”

Mélie stands, steps closer, her smile still canted in that _way_ she has. “I’ll go with you. How convincing do we have to be?”

Her breath catches again and Amicia has to remind herself to inhale, but when she does it’s too sharp, too much of a giveaway. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” she manages.

“I dare say your mother will insist I wear something _nice_,” she drawls with an eyeroll. “I’ll be uncomfortable regardless of anything else. So. How convincing?”

“We’ll have to see.” Amicia swallows at the way Mélie looks at her then, almost as if she’s issued some kind of challenge and not noticed.

“I suppose we will.”

The tone of Mélie’s voice lifts the hairs at the nape of her neck.

\--

“Will you be alright with Lucas?”

“Yes, Amicia,” Hugo says with a sigh. “You will miss my birthday?”

She hesitates. “Maybe. I’m sorry. We’ll celebrate when we return, alright?”

“Alright.”

He hugs her so tightly it’s almost easy to forget how tall he’s getting.

\--

Mélie and Amicia take turns driving the wagon down to La Rochelle and the other rides inside with Beatrice. She doesn’t know what it is that she’s worried about, exactly, but every time she switches out with Mélie she gets this funny feeling. She can’t escape the little voice in her head when she’s alone on the bench and it feels impossibly _awkward_ when she’s with her mother.

Nor can she quite convince herself at any point in their trip to bring up something that might segue into confessing the misconception Beatrice currently has. (Mostly this is because the thought, _but is it a misconception, really_, will intrude and suddenly she can’t speak.)

The conversations she does have with her mother are bad enough.

For instance: “We’ll be staying with Lord Valentin Mercier,” Beatrice tells her a few days before their arrival. “He has a son around your age, but I wrote a letter before we left, and he will likely allow you to room with Mélie. Though he may be persuaded to let you room on your own, his estate is large enough for it. I will leave it up to you, to decide.”

And again, there’s that look on her face that says, ‘This is a test. How well will you do?’ Only Amicia doesn’t know what she’s being tested _on_. She decides to hold her peace until she has a chance to look this Mercier fellow in the face, she can make a decision then.

\--

Stupid of her, really, to think that would work out.

Mélie pulls their wagon into the wide flagstone courtyard of the Mercier estate two days later and hops inelegantly off the bench to offer both Amicia and Beatrice assistance getting down. Which is probably why the pageboy disregards her immediately and asks after only Amicia and her mother, his bow neglects Mélie also.

“Ah,” he says, politely. “The de Rune ladies, my lord has been anticipating your arrival. Shall I have help sent for your things or is your serving woman capable?”

Predictably, Mélie’s eyebrow arches up. “Serving woman? Oh, my _good_ sir, you are mistaken.”

“Mélie,” Beatrice whispers.

She lifts a hand as if to swat her away and her gaze never wavers from the pageboy. “You may call me Lady Dubois and you’d better fetch those servants quick smart.”

He stammers, offers her another bow, crisp at the waist. “My apologies, milady.” He’s swift in gathering up assistance to relocate their few belongings. “If you will come with me, I’ll show you to your rooms. My lord has set aside three chambers in the east wing, it’s marvellous for watching sunrises and taking breakfast on the balconies.” He’s lying, Mercier would have only prepared two, if Beatrice’s letter arrived before them and explained any amount of her supposed relationship with Mélie, but this fellow has adjusted according to the conclusions he’s come to now that he knows they’re a party of three.

“Three rooms?” Mélie asks him and Amicia _feels_ her heart drop all the way to her toes. “Why would we need three?”

“Well…” he looks at first Mélie, then the other two in turn before directing his attention back. “There are three of you?” Or perhaps Beatrice’s letter had explained only in simple terms that another person would be with them and hadn’t included anything about their… involvement, such as it is, and this fellow is being perfectly genuine.

“Lady Amicia and I will share, thank you,” she says with the _firmest_ tone Amicia has ever heard.

The look she gets from Beatrice confirms her suspicions from earlier: there _was_ test in there somewhere. And Mélie made the choice. Whatever the test was on, Amicia still doesn’t know, but the satisfied look on Beatrice’s face seems to indicate that it concluded how she expected.

His mouth flounders like a fish on a dock. “I… alright.” When his eyes cut from Mélie to Amicia she knows for a fact that he’s aware of precisely what her implications were. Not that his expression gives away what he thinks of those implications.

“Mélie,” she hisses when he turns to lead them along their way again. “What are you doing?”

The smile she gets warms her in a strange but pleasant way and also bodes very, very ill things to come. It’s far too sweet to be anything other than conniving. “I did ask how convincing I needed to be,” she says, nonchalantly.

“And… Dubois?”

She ducks her head closer to Amicia before she whispers, “Arthur and I found their estate near Blaye not long after the rats did. No one survived.”

“But they don’t know that,” Amicia realises. “Clever.”

“How do you think I survived this long?” she asks, eyes glittering with mischief.

“Charm,” Amicia tells her drolly, hooking an arm through Mélie’s elbow.

She just laughs.

\--

The rooms are massive and the knowledge that they’ll be allowed to sleep in them and treat them as if they are personal spaces for a few days does something to Mélie’s face that in turn does something to Amicia’s stomach.

Mélie does a little spin in the parlour after the servant has left, her eyes are so wide, almost as wide as her smile. She runs her hands along the drapes, touches the polished mahogany tables, bounces when she sits in the padded chairs. It’s a child-like wonder etched into every line of her body when she turns to Amicia.

“Is this how you lived before?”

Amicia returns her brilliant smile and sits on the cushion beside her. “Not quite. It was nice, yes, but not this nice. Lord Mercier got his money through trade, my father was a knight, they’re not quite the same.”

She shrugs. “All fancy rich shit is the same to me.”

“Well,” Amicia says, leaning to bump her shoulder. “You’re fancy rich shit while we’re here.”

The way Mélie’s smile quirks this time is a new one, a little surprised, maybe dangerous. She’d thought after so many years there wouldn’t be much left to discover about Mélie, but this makes her squirm. “Mind your language, princess.” Her voice is low in a way Amicia can’t identify but she has to shift a little bit away from her on the seat to clear her head.

“Take your own advice,” she replies softly.

“I will. But I don’t have to with you.” She rolls her eyes up and lurches to her feet, offers Amicia a hand and even wiggles her fingers playfully. “Come on. I wanna see the rest of the rooms…” When she accepts Mélie’s help up they end up closer than she’d expected and whatever thought had come after that fades. It takes her a few stuttering beats to pick it back up, “Um… I can’t believe there are _several_. Rooms, _plural_.”

Amicia leads her away from the chair slowly but Mélie doesn’t release her hand. If this place was built with even a modicum of logic, then that door should lead to a small space where a copper tub might be placed (it does), and the other should lead to a bedroom (it does).

Of the first, Mélie asks, “Why is there an empty room?”

“It’s for bathing.”

“With what?”

“Servants will bring a tub up if you ask, and oils and soaps.” Amicia turns to open the other door but catches sight of Mélie’s face and hesitates. She’s gone red for some reason.

“Do the servants help?” she asks, strangled.

“I know some very rich people have servants bathe them, yes,” she says, frowning. “Always seemed a little much to me.”

This response doesn’t help Mélie recover so she elects to ignore it and inspect the bedroom. The space is dominated by a poster bed elaborately carved of a dark wood, perhaps mahogany to match the other furniture. Each of the posts are decorated with fanciful shapes meant to conjure images of the ocean, waves crashing against rocks, seashells and fish; no doubt a call-back to Mercier’s roots trading goods on ships. In fact, the headboard is a painfully detailed depiction of a vessel riding high on a wave with dolphins and some more fantastical creatures accompanying its travels.

Alone, the bed is probably the size of the whole room she shares with Mélie back home. There are two wardrobes, a basin, a pair of matched tables with pristine candles, a single oil lamp and a stand mirror. It’s exactly the opulence she’d have expected from someone who had yet to feel hard times, if toned down for guests.

Mélie appears to do a single sweep of the room before deciding that the bed is definitely the most important fixture and flopping face first into the comforter.

“This is very comfortable,” she mumbles. “What is this? Feather down?”

“No doubt.”

“Ugh.” She flops over onto her side so she can look up at Amicia. “At what point are we expected to be proper ladies?”

She narrows her eyes, warily. “Why?”

“Because this is really very nice,” Mélie says, stretching. “I could use a nap.” Her eyes slide closed but she’s only feigning sleep – or perhaps only feigning an _interest_ in sleep – because one half-opens again to check on Amicia.

“Shall I leave you to your beauty rest, my lady?” She’s half-way to her feet but Mélie is faster, her hand grabbing the hem of Amicia’s tunic, fingers tangling in the fabric, drawing her back to the bed.

“Oh no,” she says with her sly smile, “stay. _My lady_.”

And despite not really having thought about how the two of them will share the room, (Will they both use the bed? Take turns? Should she anticipate Mélie wanting to use the tub? How will etiquette fair with guests?) Amicia falls to her knees on the comforter and lays down beside her. They share a room – a _pallet_ – at their humble home to the north, so why does this feel different?

(Because the bed is big enough for four people and they’re so close. Because they had the chance to have their own separate spaces and Mélie decided they should share this too. Because Mélie is looking at her in that new way, the one that makes her feel like all her insides are trying to escape something through her skin. Because it’s _Mélie_. She doesn’t know what that distinction means, or maybe she just doesn’t want to.)

For a long while they just lay there, watching each other. It’s no different to what they do at home in the evenings before bed, only then they have a blanket of darkness and the escape of sleep. This feels different too, and the way Mélie’s gaze flicks between her eyes carries something mirrored in the soft tilt to her lips. Amicia does her best to ignore it, but the solid thud of her heart against her ribs proves she’s a failure.

Mélie breaks the silence (and the strange tension) when she says, “Are these noble folks gonna make me dance at this fancy do?”

Amicia laughs, a breathy, relieved sound. Her eyes look away, freed from whatever held them. “I doubt it.” But they are drawn back. “I might, though.”

That – for some reason – is what causes Mélie’s smile to wobble, the confidence in her aura shivers with uncertainty just for a second and then she’s once more wrapped in her armour. “As long as I’m only making a fool of myself with you, then, that’s fine. But I’m not dancing with some stupid lordling.”

“I’ll protect you from the gentlemen,” Amicia says with a more collected laugh than before. At least, it’s that until she sees the look on Mélie’s face. A look that says she will hold Amicia to her word.

(And maybe not just in relation to dancing.)

\--

Mercier’s seamstress comes by later to take their measurements. Beatrice already has some nice clothes to wear, but both Amicia and Mélie have only their peasant clothes and the seamstress makes a face – pursed lips, critical squinting eyes, head tilt – that weighs them to the inch and finds them wanting.

Amicia is familiar with the process, the questions, the discomfort from having a stranger eye her so intently, dress her in such an unusual and oddly invasive way. Mélie finds the whole thing amusing until it’s her turn.

“Can’t I just… wear something that doesn’t require all this?” she whines while the seamstress wraps tape around her hips.

With a smile, Amicia looks up from where she’s inspecting bolts of cloth, just a few different types and patterns and colours to give her an idea of what she might like. It’s more of a selection than the seamstress she used to see, that’s for sure. Mélie has her eyes squeezed shut as if mortified to be subjected to this.

“You’ll look very pretty, Mélie,” Amicia tells her. “And it’s only for one night.”

“I never asked to look pretty,” she grouches.

“That’s too bad,” Amicia sighs. “You manage it in your rags, so just imagine all the hearts _you_ can break in a silk dress.”

Mélie’s face has gone red and when she opens her eyes there’s that _look_ in them again, the soft, warm one that makes Amicia’s heart skip. She opens her mouth, “You…” closes it, tries again with a huff, “Well, I never asked for a _dress_, then.”

“But think of how deep the pockets could be,” she murmurs and the light in Mélie’s eyes changes to something more in keeping with her usual mischief and mayhem.

“Now _there’s_ an idea.” She turns to the seamstress. “Do you think you could put plenty of pocket space in this dress?”

The woman purses her lips again, her thoughtful look inspecting Mélie for any hint of why this request might be important. Slowly she says, “Yes, I believe I can.” She doesn’t ask why, isn’t paid to be curious about the goings on of lords and ladies, thank goodness.

“Fantastic.”

\--

They are all thankfully excused from attending the usual banquet that evening. Many other lords and ladies from the region have arrived for the gala the following night and so Lord Mercier has thrown together a spur of the moment feast for them. Amicia takes one look at Mélie’s face when the suggestion is brought to them by a servant and cites the weariness of travel as their reason for not going. Mélie gives her a grateful look and other servants knock later bearing platters of food for them.

Beatrice, they are told, has gone down to join the rest and has enquired after their health.

“We’ll be alright,” Amicia tells the young man in his embroidered liveries. “I think we’ll take our meal on the balcony and retire early. Please let my mother know not to worry.”

He bows and departs.

“You always use manners on the staff?” Mélie asks from where she’s taking the lids off all the dishes brought up to them and inspecting the food.

“Yes. Father taught me just because they are paid to do what we ask, that doesn’t mean we can’t be nice to them.”

She makes a thoughtful sound. “That explains your mother, then.”

Amicia laughs, picks up a platter and heads for the balcony. “What do you mean?”

Mélie shrugs. “She’s always nice to me, but in a… I don’t know. In a _way_. Like she has to be nice to me. Not because she actually likes me.”

“You only think that because of how she scolded you when you got Hugo a knife.”

Mélie gives her this wide-eyed, faux-innocent look as she follows with another platter. “Think how much easier life could’ve been if he’d had a knife when Vitalis got him, huh. Could’ve just stabbed the old coot and that would’ve been that.”

“He was _five_.”

“It’s never too early to learn how to stab people, princess.”

Amicia sets her platter on the table and turns to her with fists on hips, but Mélie’s wearing her usual crooked smile. The one Amicia knows means she’s being teased. “Oh, very funny.” While Mélie sets her plate down, Amicia hauls the bench seat over so they can sit next to each other. “You know,” she whispers, “he asked if you were his aunt, once.”

The lid Mélie’s holding clatters loudly against the dish. “He didn’t.”

“He did. Auntie Mélie and Uncle Lucas, he asked.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That neither of you is related to our parents so that’s not how it works.”

“Thank _god_.” She dishes out food onto the plates, there’s roast pheasant, lamb, some sweet-smelling sauce, beans and carrots and what looks like potatoes basted in a white paste. It smells incredible. Mélie looks up at her, fork paused in the act of impaling a slice of lamb, “Wait. Given the lie we’re selling to these people, what _am_ I to your brother?”

“A bad influence,” Amicia mumbles. “According to mother.”

“Cute. I’m serious.”

Amicia meets her eyes and there’s no hint of mischief in them, only curiosity and perhaps a little bit of fear for some reason. “Nothing, really,” she says. “We’d have to be…” her throat closes over, and she feels her face and neck heat up in a way that’s hugely traitorous and when she tries again, she can’t look Mélie in the face. “We’d have to, uh… be _married_ for you to be something to Hugo.”

Mélie’s fork makes a grating sound and when Amicia looks up, her face has gone red too. “Oh,” she says, sounding strangled. “Well that’s…” She coughs, sits down on one end of the padded bench and stuffs a forkful of food into her mouth in an obvious escape from the conversation.

It’s a legitimate strategy so Amicia follows her lead. Best not to think about it. Of course, with silence between them and nothing but food and the orange-lit countryside, it’s all she can think about. How ridiculous.

She tries to pretend she’s not acutely aware of Mélie sitting on the bench beside her, close enough that if she shifted their legs would bump, but it’s not easy.

And then Mélie slaps her cutlery harder than necessary against the edge of her plate and turns bodily to face her and their legs _do_ bump and Amicia has to force herself to look away from the point of contact to frown at her dumb face. Mélie’s brows are drawn and she’s chewing on something as she thinks but when she speaks it sounds… wary, more than anything. “Are we… did your mother bring you here to find you a husband?”

Amicia bites her lip for a moment and then says, “I think… maybe. She said it was a good idea to introduce me to society again, partly to help us remind everyone that the de Runes survived and perhaps to get their assistance in building up our status again. But…”

“You think she intended you to find a husband to help in that,” Mélie concludes.

“Possibly.”

Mélie shifts slightly, her frown still in place. “So how does this…” she waves a hand between them, “fit into her plan?”

“It doesn’t,” she admits. “Assuming that _is_ mother’s plan.”

“And if it is?” She doesn’t know why Mélie is pushing this, why she’s so curious, but she’s glad to at least have a reason to think about what she wants.

When her gaze skips between Mélie’s eyes, searching, she doesn’t know what she expects to find but she’s surprised when there’s something earnest there. “I don’t want that plan,” she confesses, softly. “I… am quite satisfied with the way things are.”

There’s a twitch to Mélie’s lips (that she doesn’t miss because her eyes drop to follow the movement for some reason) that hints at a smile, but it’s soft, _pleased_, nothing cheeky about it. “Me too,” she says in a tiny voice. “I’d hate to lose you to some stupid lord.”

Amicia laughs and it’s _relief_ that breezes through her ribs. “I would hate to lose you, too.”

It isn’t until she’s said it that she really understands the truth of the statement, the profundity it carries, the _weight_ of it that actually lifts something from her shoulders like she’d been carrying a heavy secret and not known. Amicia wastes no time dwelling on that, though, she’s too caught up in the way Mélie’s mouth finally quirks up into a proper smile and how she looks less tired suddenly, as if she feels the same relief of having said that aloud.

“That’s good, because in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re _involved_.” And there’s the teasing tone returning. It can’t hide the honesty in her eyes, though. “Your mother is just gonna have to live with that.”

“Ah yes,” Amicia adds, leaning into her shoulder. “The knowledge that I didn’t want to marry one of her silly lords.”

“Yeah. You picked a _thief_ instead, because you have taste.”

She lifts an eyebrow even though Mélie probably doesn’t see it. “Is that what you call it?”

It’s easy to ignore the obvious tangent this conversation could take while caught up by Mélie’s banter. Easy to pretend this will work out somehow. Everything has always been easier with Mélie, for some reason.

“Of course,” Mélie says flatly. Amicia can picture her haughty-adjacent expression without looking up. “Why else would you have let me stick around?”

“Because _somehow_ you convinced me you’re my best friend,” Amicia replies, equally droll. “I’m still not sure how that happened.”

She makes a faux-insulted noise in her throat but her shoulder shakes with laughter. “It’s because I’m the best, clearly.”

“Clearly.”

\--

They’re still sitting there later when the sun has fully set and the courtyard below is lit only by the lanterns and soft crescent moonlight, the countryside beyond blanketed in shadow. Mélie has fallen asleep on her shoulder and Amicia doesn’t have the heart to move her. It’s funny how the moon softens her features, relaxes her, lifts the weight of anguish and fear she’s been carrying even all after all these years.

There’s a knock at the door, drawing her out of her contemplation of Mélie and the strange ache she sets into her heart. Amicia looks over her shoulder through the antechamber. It’s probably servants come to collect the dishes from their meal but she doesn’t want to disturb Mélie.

So she calls, as softly as she can, “Come in,” across the room.

It creaks open slowly and a man steps in who very obviously is not a servant. He _is_ accompanied by one, however, the same man who’d brought their food earlier. The servant hurries out to the balcony and collects their dishes professionally before bowing to them, then the other man, and leaving.S

Which leaves Amicia in the awkward position of having a sleeping Mélie on her shoulder and no idea who this fellow is. Luckily, he’s nobility and was raised properly.

He offers her a bow (and she inclines her head), then says, “I’m Lucien Mercier. My father would’ve come himself to greet you but he’s… easily caught up in conversation.” His smile is relaxed and charming, confident. He’s probably aware that his shock of black hair is awry in a way that speaks to an almost irreverent attitude and his face is square in a manner that is both pleasing to the eye and inherently trustworthy.

“That’s alright,” Amicia says, “My apologies for not standing.” She gestures to Mélie. “The journey took a lot out of us, but it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lady de Rune. Is there anything I can offer you before tomorrow evening?” Lucien’s eyes flicker from her face to Mélie and she’s watching him closely enough to spot when several thoughts flash behind his eyes. Perhaps Beatrice had mentioned Mélie, or the pageboy had gossiped (and that kind of talk reaches everyone’s ears before long), regardless of the how, it’s clear Lucien had heard that someone had accompanied them – and perhaps even rumours of why – but hadn’t believed it.

He does now, however.

“No, thank you. We’ll be alright after a good night’s rest.”

Lucien tips his head once more. “My lady.” And then he strides from the balcony and back out the door. At least he’s polite enough not to linger and press for conversation.

Mélie stirs. “Who wassat?”

“Mercier’s son.”

She hums, presses her face further into Amicia’s neck and it takes every ounce of her self-control to not react to that somehow. “What’d he want?”

“He said he wanted to ask if we needed anything.”

Mélie makes another thoughtful sound, rolls her head to the side until her chin is propped on Amicia’s shoulder, eyes fixed intently on her profile. “You’re not convinced.”

She rolls her eyes and twists so she can sort of look Mélie in the face. “A servant can ask that. And… after what you said about mother having a… _plan_ to marry me off to one of these lords? No. I’m not convinced.”

And (curse her) Mélie laughs, she has to lean away to do so which means Amicia can look at her fully now. “You think he came by to see you? See if you were worth marrying? Idiot.”

“Actually, I think he came by to see _you_.” That cuts her laughter off. “To see if you were some sort of potential rival.”

Mélie blinks. “Seriously? You think that?”

“Yes. Why did you call him an idiot?”

She splutters a little and her face flushes just slightly. It’s hard to see in the moonlight but they’re close enough that it’s undeniable. “Well… because you’re… _you_.”

“What does that mean?”

“I…” Mélie’s mouth flounders and eventually she looks away. “Ugh. Never mind.” She stands, stretches. “Let’s just get some sleep.”

Amicia watches her go, wondering, but follows without trying to extract more information. Mélie can clam up with the best of them when she wants to, and this is probably not important anyway.

Of course, that doesn’t stop her from thinking about her words as they get ready for bed. The tension from earlier doesn’t make a reappearance, for which Amicia is grateful, but there’s still _something_ about lying here on this bed with Mélie that feels different. It’s in the way Mélie’s eyes glitter in the low light, the slow tilt to her mouth, the way she lifts a hand to smooth hair out of Amicia’s face.

It’s in how no matter the size of the bed, they lie close together again. Perhaps just a familiar comfort when surrounded by the strange, but perhaps something else, too.

It’s in the way she feels Mélie’s exhale on her cheek when she says, “Sleep well, Amicia.”

(It’s in the way Amicia suddenly wants to kiss her.)

(It’s terrifying.)

Sleep comes late, that night.

\--

They go for a walk the following morning with Beatrice. The Mercier estate has wonderful gardens, but they’re too tame for Amicia. All the trees and shrubs have been trimmed neatly and squared away into patterns that are elaborate and well-executed, but for someone used to exploring the forests around the de Rune estate, this feels… confining. As if somehow these plants are man-made, just another structure and not truly part of the outdoors.

But then again, perhaps the suffocating feeling comes from lingering thoughts of last night. Perhaps it’s because how any time Mélie so much as glances at her, it’s with that soft smile she keeps just for Amicia and then all of a sudden, her insides are squirming and she’s once more struck by the urge to kiss her.

Valentin Mercier walks with them for a while, introduces himself with perfect charm and respect to both Amicia and Mélie (who, by some miracle. manages not to say anything rude). He speaks to them – mostly Beatrice, but he directs words to all of them – only Amicia doesn’t hear any of what he says because she’s too busy watching Mélie pluck flowers from the bushes.

It’s not until she’s settling a wonky wreath of flowers and leaves onto Amicia’s brow that she even realises what’s going on. And then Mélie’s _close_ again and Amicia can count the freckles across her nose and she has to step back and _breathe_ or she’s just going to kiss her right here in front of her mother. There’s probably not much in the world more mortifying that she could put herself through, she doesn’t think.

She hides the need for _distance_ by pulling a flower from the hedge beside her only then she’s stuck because her instinct was to slide it behind Mélie’s ear but that would require them to be close again. Somehow, she steels herself long enough to cross the space and lift a shaking hand and follow through with her intention. Amicia has no idea how she manages it without combusting, but she does. Just barely.

Then Mélie is rolling her eyes and hooking their elbows together.

“Must take a lot of time to maintain,” she says and Amicia is reminded of the conversation happening around her. Clearly Mélie is replying to something but Amicia didn’t hear it.

Valentin looks around at them, eyes darting to their linked arms. “I am blessed with a dedicated staff,” he says. “And my son sometimes spends his afternoons helping them.” He chuckles. “Lucien insists that he know what they’re working on. He’s a good lad.”

“Mm. He came to visit us last night,” Mélie adds. “Asked if he could get us anything; it was so thoughtful.”

Amicia is probably the only one who knows Mélie well enough to hear the sardonic lilt to her voice. Which is just as well; they do _not_ need Valentin thinking they don’t like his son. (Even if they don’t.)

When she twists to give Mélie a half-hearted glare, she finds she’s already being watched by her twinkling eyes. She has the audacity to _wink_ and then Amicia is back to wanting to kiss her.

It’s a hard afternoon.

\--

But it’s a _worse_ evening.

Not least because Mélie needs help getting ready, having never worn something so complicated as a bodice before. And when Amicia goes to find someone she ends up in her mother’s room helping her do her hair while the seamstress clucks her tongue and goes to lace Mélie into her dress. Then, naturally, she has to endure conversation with Beatrice.

“It might be tempting to brush off all the gentlemen here this evening,” her mother says while Amicia braids her hair, “and spend the whole night with Mélie. But at least _try_ to make a nice impression on some of them.”

With pins in her mouth, Amicia finds it very hard to conjure a suitable retort. “What do you mean?” she mumbles.

Beatrice sighs. “I see how Mélie looks at you, Amicia, I’m not _blind_. But having contacts from other noble families will help us in the future. Some of them might know of estates we could acquire.”

She twists her mother’s hair up into a knot on the back of her head and holds it there, sliding around to look Beatrice in the face. “Did you bring me with because you wanted me to find a husband?” she blurts.

“What? No.” She looks up from her paint tin to stare incredulously at Amicia. “Some of these young lords might make good husbands, certainly, but I would never push that decision on you. There’s too much of your father in you for that. Whatever made you think this?”

Amicia sighs, shuffles around to pin the knot properly in place. “Something Mélie said.”

Beatrice lifts a hand and touches her wrist. “Amicia.” Her eyes snap up at the tone and meet her mother’s in the mirror. “She’s not who I expected you to find,” her voice is soft, sincere, “and honestly, she’s not even who I had _hoped_ you would find. But she makes you happy, and after all we’ve been through, that’s what matters.”

“Then why… all this?”

She smiles in the same soft, sincere way and says, “Because of Hugo. You adapted to what the world needed you to be even though you shouldn’t have had to and there’s no changing that for you, no forgetting or moving on. But Hugo deserves the chance to try and live a normal life. That’s always been my hopes for him, despite the Macula.”

“There’s nothing wrong with living quietly on a farm, you know,” she points out.

And Beatrice laughs. “No, there’s not. The Macula responds to its environment, though, my darling. He survived the first threshold, but I would rather not risk attempting the second. To avoid that, he needs something stable where there’s no question of survival.”

Amicia finishes pinning Beatrice’s hair up and leans against the dresser. “You want the resources to take care of him again. Properly.”

“Yes,” her mother says, standing, sweeping hair behind Amicia’s ear. “And that’s not your burden to bear, it’s mine.”

“Wait,” she chokes, eyes going wide. “Are _you_ looking for a new husband?”

“No, Amicia,” she laughs. “Just friends. Valentin knows of my skills with alchemy, I’m hoping we can come to an arrangement that benefits us both.” She steps away then and fetches a dress from the next room. “Now let’s get you ready for a ball.”

Despite being handed the perfect chance to explain to Beatrice their earlier miscommunication and how she and Mélie aren’t really involved she somehow never manages to do so. (And that little voice returns saying, _that’s because you should be_. She’s starting to think it might be right.)

Beatrice leaves her with a kiss to the top of her head before she departs for the ball with a last, “Don’t be too late.”

Amicia paces past the dresser several times debating with herself: she could wait here for Mélie and they could go down together, that’s probably what’s expected of them; or she could go now and speak to some of the lords and ladies without being distracted. She paces a little more before deciding on the second option.

She finds Lucien talking with two other people, another lord and a lady, and after taking a deep breath, heads towards them.

“My lords, my lady,” she greets them with a proper (if decidedly rusty) half curtsy. “It’s a pleasant evening.”

“Good evening, Lady de Rune,” Lucien says cheerfully. “This is Louis and Cecile, my good friends.”

“There’s no need for formalities,” Cecile says, offering her hand. “That’s for our parents.”

“We’re just here to have a good time,” Louis adds. “So just Louis is fine with me, none of this stuffy _lord_ nonsense.” He spreads his hands, “We’re at a party.”

“Oh, Mélie’s going to _love_ you,” Amicia laughs, taking his hand as well. “And if that’s the case then please, no ‘lady’ for me either.”

Louis arches an eyebrow. “Who’s Mélie?”

“A friend of mine.”

“Mélie Dubois, I was told,” Cecile chimes in. “I heard all the Dubois died during the plague.”

“All but Mélie and her brother,” Amicia says. “Although… I suppose Arthur technically didn’t survive the plague, but he did outlive most of his family.”

“What a shame,” Lucien says, and he sounds almost like he means it. “Did you know him?”

“Yes, he was wonderful. We miss him.” It’s been almost five years since then, but her throat still closes over, and she has to look away. Cecile rests a hand on her shoulder and smiles sadly.

“That plague was a right menace,” Lucien goes on. “My mother died early on and my little sister not long later. I’m glad it’s over.”

Louis has his mouth open to respond but someone taps on Lucien’s shoulder and says, “Hey, Lucien. Have you seen…?” When he turns all of them spot Mélie. And she, at the same time, sees Amicia and her voice trails away. When she finds it again, it’s to say, “Holy shit.”

Privately, Amicia thinks ‘_holy shit_’ is right.

Mélie’s in a blue dress, but that’s not quite accurate enough for the way it shimmers in the lamplight, catches every stray flicker of fire and turns into an ocean of aqua greens and crystal blue river water. Her eyes seem so, _so_ bright highlighted like that by every shade of blue Amicia can name and more that she can’t. It’s a simple bodice with sleeves down which embroidery crawls like lilies and vines and rush reeds. The skirt is slashed with a deeper blue layered underneath, and that’s the velvety dark of the glittering, inky night sky.

Her short hair has been curled just slightly (and Mélie probably hated every second of _that_), hanging loose around her face. And that’s where Amicia gets stuck: staring at her face. It’s where all the air in her lungs and the beating of her heart gets stuck too. It’s not until Mélie smiles at her, that slow, secret one just for her, that she remembers to breathe again.

And when Mélie steps past Lucien, Amicia can no longer hold back the urge to kiss her. She _does_ – just barely – manage to restrain herself somewhat, however, and when she leans in her lips press carefully against Mélie’s cheek. Amicia would almost be willing to _swear_ she trembles.

“Didn’t I say you’d break hearts?” she whispers.

Mélie twitches, leans away, mumbles, “Not yours, I hope,” and then her face flushes furiously when she realises they’re not alone. She recovers quickly, stuffing her hands into pockets sewn into the sides of the dress. “Look at this! They’re so deep, I can go up to my _elbow_.”

“You had better make use of them.”

“Oh, believe me, princess,” Mélie replies, the sharp, mischievous glitter overlaying the softer one, “I intend to.”

Louis laughs then and it shatters the little bubble they’d constructed within which none of the others existed. Mélie glares at him but it rolls off his shoulders. Which is probably why he still says (unnecessarily), “No princesses here, tonight.”

Mélie doesn’t stop staring at him pointedly until she’s said, “She is to me,” and Louis has had a moment of clarity and apologised. She turns her gaze on Cecile and says, “Mélie.”

Cecile, thankfully, doesn’t miss a beat. “Cecile. Are you really a Dubois?”

“Not much of one anymore,” Mélie tells her with a shrug. “Hard to be a Dubois with no family and nowhere to call home.”

“Looks to me like you’ve got both of those things sorted out nicely,” Cecile says. Her eyes cut to Amicia and Mélie’s follow. Even though Cecile’s attention returns to Mélie and their conversation, the same cannot be said of her. She just stares at Amicia as if she’s forgotten everyone else again. “Come on, my lords,” Amicia is vaguely aware of Cecile saying, “Let’s go find something to eat.”

Then it really is just the two of them and Mélie fidgets with her fingers until Amicia laces hers through them. “You look lovely, Mélie.”

Her flush deepens. “Yeah, well… thanks. You look…” she lifts her free hand and waves it vaguely. “Amazing,” is what she settles on.

Amicia squeezes her hand, does her best to ignore the flush creeping up her neck. “Come on.”

She starts to pull Mélie along but gets a groan and a reluctant tug of resistance. “You’re not gonna make me dance, are you?”

“No,” she laughs, “I’m hungry.”

There’s no proper meal at a ball, (but there will be a feast tomorrow night) instead several tables line one wall and are filled with smaller foodstuffs to eat. Apparently, the idea is to ‘graze’ so you’re never too full to dance while also not getting hungry. It sounds fair enough to Amicia but Mélie scrunches her nose up and says something about pretension that makes her laugh.

They find Cecile again not long after picking up two little trays of food and sit with her on the outskirts of the main gathering. Some people are dancing along with the band playing on a dais in the corner not far from the food, but most appear to be chatting.

“How did the two of you meet?” Cecile asks without preamble.

They exchange glances and Amicia can read on Mélie’s face the question: ‘do we tell the truth?’ She shrugs and says, “During the plague. My brother and I fled the rats, we thought mother was dead, and we met Mélie and her brother in the woods.”

“The English made travel hard,” Mélie adds. “We had… some _trouble_ avoiding them.”

“Right. Mélie and Arthur kept us alive. They were very good at sneaking.”

Mélie scoffs. “You just attracted trouble.”

“As I recall, it was our timely arrival that allowed you to _escape_ the English.”

“Yeah, sure, but we spent the next four months avoiding them.”

“Why would the English have been interested in kids?” Cecile asks.

And that’s the question that stalls Amicia. Luckily, Mélie is a proficient liar. “Anyone they caught outside of their little quarantine zones they assumed was sick.” She shrugs. “Guess they wanted to disinfect us.”

“That’s _horrible_,” Cecile gasps. “How on earth did you manage?”

“We stole a castle.”

“We didn’t _steal_ it, Mélie. No one lived there.”

“Sounds better to say we stole it.”

Cecile is half way through saying something that starts with, “The two of you are so –” when she’s interrupted by a lord dressed in a very drab grey.

He bows to them in the sort of performative way that says he only does so because it’s expected of him, then he says, “My name is Gabriel,” and extends a hand to Amicia. “Would you like to dance?”

“Not really,” she admits. She remembers what her mother said about making friends, so she adds, “But thank you.”

He doesn’t leave. “Just one dance.”

“No, thank you,” she repeats.

“I insist.” He sure does. He’s insisting on being a nuisance.

“She said no, so waddle along, duckling,” Mélie interjects. “That’s how manners work.”

His eyes flick to her and dismiss her immediately and _that’s_ what gets to Amicia. Before he can do more than open his mouth, Amicia has turned to Mélie. “Would _you_ like to dance?”

Mélie blinks at her, looking surprised by the question. She recovers slowly, takes Amicia’s hand and follows her to the floor where others are dancing. It’s perhaps a testament to how stunned she is that Mélie doesn’t glare at Gabriel or even acknowledge his existence the entire time.

Of course, then they’re actually standing there and Amicia realises they have to dance now or they’ll seem like idiots.

“I still don’t know how to dance, Amicia,” Mélie whispers.

“I do. Left hand on my arm,” she murmurs back, settling her right hand on Mélie’s waist. “Right hand in mine. Follow my footsteps.”

When her father had taught her to waltz, she’d learned the follower’s pattern, so it takes her a few moments and several missteps to adjust to being the lead. What surprises her more is that Mélie _lets_ her lead. Her fingers tighten on Amicia’s every now and then, and she alternates between staring at her feet and her face and every time Mélie looks up she nearly stumbles.

They move slowly, partly in time with the music, but mostly because they’re both uncomfortable on their feet. (It’s not at all because every time Amicia looks at her she gets caught on her eyes, her smile, and the sudden tug in her chest to kiss her again. No way.)

She laughs every time Mélie almost stands on her toes, or their feet bump together, or she goes one way and Amicia the other and they nearly end up in a tangled heap on the floor. It’s funny in an easy way; they have nothing to prove to each other, no reason to be the best at this, no one to impress, and that removes a lot of the anxiety Mélie had earlier. It’s so clear in the way she moves, no stiff angles and jerky steps, her shoulders and elbows are loose, just like her smile.

So when Mélie’s shoulders tip up sharply Amicia immediately knows _something_ has happened. She turns, but doesn’t let go of Mélie’s hand or waist, and there’s another lordling there. She frowns at him.

“Might I cut in,” he asks, perfectly polite.

“No, you may not,” Mélie tells him flatly.

He smiles but his eyes don’t leave Amicia. What is with these lords and ignoring Mélie? He even extends a hand as if he expects she’ll acquiesce at any moment now.

“You heard the woman,” Amicia says, nearing a snap. “You may not.”

“I’ll only keep you one dance,” he goes on.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Amicia sighs. “What do I have to say to convince you all I don’t –?”

“Amicia.” Her teeth click together, and she turns to Mélie, so unused to hearing her actual name in public, usually it’s something teasing. She doesn’t get a chance to ask anything, in fact, she barely has her mouth open before Mélie’s pulling her in and kissing her.

_Everything_ stops.

Her heart, her breath, her head, everyone around them freezes in place and fades from her awareness. The _only_ thing that exists in that moment is the knowledge that _Mélie_ is _kissing_ her. Not quickly and politely but with _feeling_. A feeling that echoes through Amicia’s ribs until it’s thundering along her veins, setting her on fire. All she can feel – _all_ she can feel – is Mélie’s mouth on hers, the way their noses bump, the hand that leaves her shoulder to linger on her neck, the way the fabric of Mélie’s dress crinkles under her fingers as she unconsciously pulls her closer, _closer_.

It’s too much; _Mélie_ is too much – and also not enough, not close enough, not –

– kissing her anymore. She sucks in a juddering breath, eyes half-lidded, still not aware of what’s happening in the room around her, only on how dark Mélie’s eyes are suddenly, how her face is redder than normal, how she wants to kiss her again. It takes her a long, slow minute to fully open her eyes and get her breathing under control.

“What…” her voice is hoarse so she tries again, “What was that for?”

“He’s gone.” She hums her confusion. “The lordling who wanted to dance,” Mélie elaborates. “He wasn’t listening, but now he’s gone.” She takes a deep breath of her own and exhales heavily. “I guess _that’s_ how convincing, huh?”

That takes a moment to click properly in her head (still caught up in the whole, being kissed thing) but when it does she exhales too. Right. A convincing act.

They don’t keep dancing, instead they find Cecile and the others again. They’re mid conversation but interrupt themselves to smile and laugh and tease Mélie for how she handled the situation.

Amicia participates in the conversation, but only barely. Her brain is too busy thinking, _just a convincing act, nothing more_.

\--

They don’t linger late, Beatrice insisted that they stay the next night so they can be at the feast, but after everything Amicia is tired and Mélie can tell so they’re some of the first to retire. She thinks it’s a nice how quickly Mélie settled into a friendly manner with the three nobles. Or… friendly for her, anyway. She teased them, returned their banter, never _once_ insulted them, she won them over, and even seemed to be enjoying herself.

But the instant she realised Amicia was done with the evening, that was that, time to leave. It’s remarkable how much a little time can change someone; even if Mélie’s still not much of a people person, she manages just fine; putting up a front for survival.

And it’s obvious as soon as they reach their rooms that the effort of performing a personable role has exhausted Mélie. She doesn’t even try to get out of her dress before she flops her whole body across the bed. It’s enough to make Amicia smile for the first time in a while and by the time she’s locked the door and pulled off her slippers and crossed the antechamber to the bedroom, Mélie is already asleep.

Her smile blurs a little at the edges as she peels Mélie’s slippers off and lifts the blanket over her. She smooths her hand across Mélie’s hair and leaves the room.

It’s harder to get undressed without help, and she manages it just barely without ripping the dress. After she’s put something a little more comfortable on, she takes a spare blanket and sits out on the balcony.

Amicia knows for a fact she won’t be able to sleep yet. She’s tired, yes, and couldn’t face another moment out there with people, but she couldn’t find rest if she tried. She can still feel Mélie’s lips on hers, the warmth of fingers on her cheek. And she can still _feel_ the words ‘that’s how convincing, huh’ coiling thorny around her lungs.

It’s… hollow and heavy.

So she sits on the bench with her feet tucked up under her and the blanket wrapped firmly around her shoulders, head tilted back onto the padded cushions, staring out over the courtyard and it’s constructed gardens. The stars twinkle overhead and she’s reminded of Mélie’s dress, their light bounces off the pond below and she thinks of Mélie’s eyes.

She closes her own eyes and tries not to think of _anything_ but it doesn’t work.

All she can see is Mélie and her smile. That soft one, her cheeky one, the one she wears when she _knows_ she’s got all the cards and will definitely beat you at whatever. The impossibly bright one she gives Hugo, the watery one when it’s late at night and she’s had a dream about Arthur and can’t control her crying but is trying to convince Amicia not to worry.

And then the scene plays out where she realises Amicia stares at her and she figures out why that is. There’s no smiling then. After that it’s Mélie leaving, it’s Amicia on her knees but she’s gone. Again. And this time not coming back.

Panic burns through her, hot and aching and she knows – knows to her marrow – that she could never risk this. Mélie had said she’d hate to lose her to a lord. Well… Amicia would hate to lose her over this. She won’t let that happen.

She jerks upright when there’s a soft touch on her shoulder.

Mélie is standing over her, eyes mostly closed, rubbing a hand across her face. Maybe she’d fallen asleep after all.

“Amicia, what are you doing out here? Come inside.”

She’s still wearing the dress, it catches the moonlight and glitters like more stars; her hair is no longer in pristine curls but sticks out messily about her ears. Her chest thuds painfully, her throat closes over and she shakes her head, tucking herself further into the corner of the bench.

Mélie sighs. “You’ll catch cold sleeping out here.” Her expression is still bleary, more tired than frustrated. She catches a corner of the blanket between her fingers and tugs on it, but it’s half-hearted, weak from sleep, and so Amicia just pulls it back, tighter under her chin.

“Go back to bed,” Amicia mumbles.

“Come with me, then.”

“No.” She sounds like a pouty child (like Hugo when he gets sick) but she can’t stop it. That’s apparently just the tone she’s taking.

“Fine.” Mélie surprises her by sitting beside her and pressing in close. “Share the blanket.”

Amicia is so shocked by this that she can’t resist when Mélie takes one edge from her and slips underneath. It’s awkward at first but Mélie makes no concessions, shuffling them around until they’re both under the blanket, Amicia more or less pinned by her and connected from shoulders to knees.

“Arthur and I used to have to sleep like this when there was no shelter. It’s better to share body warmth,” she grumbles. “Didn’t think you’d be this stubborn when there’s a perfectly good bed ten feet that way.” Her head rolls inelegantly where it rests against Amicia’s chest in a vague gesture inside.

Amicia _really_ wishes she’d move her head, shift it anywhere else, somewhere she can’t possibly hear the way her heart hammers at her ribs.

(Years ago, when Mélie had first come back from her wandering, eyes dark and begging to be allowed to stay, to be forgiven, they’d had to share a room. Even later when they didn’t _have_ to anymore, they chose to. Mélie didn’t like to be alone. Didn’t like admitting as much, either. But in all that time, all the adjusting they had to make to live in such close proximity, nothing had _ever_ made her feel this awkward around Mélie.)

All Amicia can do now is hope she’s too tired, too blurry from sleep still, to notice anything is wrong.

It’s wishful thinking.

Mélie hums, her fingers finding her waist and squeezing. “What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“Your heart is going too fast.”

She doesn’t answer. What could she say?

“Tell me.” Her fingers press harder into Amicia’s side and she squirms away from the touch.

Mélie keeps jabbing her until the words spill unbidden from her mouth, “You kissed me.”

Her hands still then and she props herself up on an elbow to look Amicia in the eye. It’s hard to do in the low light. “Yeah. Was I that bad?” There’s a teasing quirk to her lips but it’s wan, worried, maybe.

“No.” Amicia thinks she probably answers too quickly, too fiercely; the worry fades from Mélie’s face. She sucks in a breath and Mélie’s gaze dips before returning to her eyes. On the exhale Amicia admits quietly, “I want to kiss you again.”

Mélie’s mouth works but no sound emerges. Amicia thinks maybe she’s gone red again, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. “You… why?” she eventually asks, voice so, so soft. “There’s no one here?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to kiss me because there are people to convince. I want you to _mean_ it.”

“Why?” she asks again, voice cracking.

Amicia lifts a shaking hand and presses it gently to Mélie’s cheek, brushes her thumb over the scar; watches, fascinated the way her eyes flutter closed, her throat bobs as her breath hitches. “Because…” she has to take another breath before finishing the thought. “Because when I told you mother thought we’re involved my first thought was that we _should_ be. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

When Mélie’s eyes open this time, they’re dark again, intent. “We…? But…?”

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to leave again.”

“Why would I leave?”

“I…” She sighs. “I’m _scared_, Mélie. I don’t want to _lose _you.” Amicia searches her face for any indication that she might but comes up empty. Mélie’s expression is surprisingly neutral.

Then she leans down with a shaky exhale, presses her nose to Amicia’s cheek and says, “You won’t.” And her tone is so certain, so completely convinced of this, that she believes her.

It’s not enough though – still _not enough_, she wonders if there will ever be _enough_ – and the hand still on Mélie’s face directs her elsewhere, pulls her closer, down, until they’re only a breath away from each other. Mélie’s expression is still blank enough that Amicia has no idea what she’s thinking, but her eyes are still so _dark_ and that’s got to mean something.

So she tilts up the last fraction and kisses her. Like she _means_ it.

It takes a moment, but then Mélie presses back, fingers warm and sure and insistent on her hips; mouth demanding and it’s like she’s trying to pour all her feelings through this one moment into Amicia, feelings she hides behind cocksure smiles and snappy remarks. This, though, _this_ feels honest; it’s the same ache, the same _yearning_ that’s been burning through Amicia’s chest all night, only it’s tempered by _finally_ and _you won’t lose me_ and it makes her shake.

Mélie must assume the shaking means crying because she pulls back and Amicia automatically follows the movement, not done kissing her just yet. It makes Mélie laugh, softly, a laugh to go with the secret smiles she saves just for Amicia.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

Amicia hums, pulls her back down by the laces on her bodice. “I was until you stopped.”

Mélie resists, how she manages that is impossible to identify. “Come on, princess. Let’s get out of the cold.”

This time, when Mélie scoots back and stands, offers her a hand up, Amicia takes it with a quirk of one eyebrow. “Inviting me to bed? My Lady Dubois, how scandalous.”

Thankfully, Mélie just rolls her eyes. “Uh huh, sure. I’ll sleep on the floor if you’re gonna be like that about it.”

“And I was going to offer you help getting out of the dress, too.”

Mélie stops at that, face serious when she says, “_Would you_? It’s so uncomfortable to sleep in but I can’t figure out these damn knots.”

Amicia laughs and takes her hand, pulls her into the bedroom. Once the laces are loose, she leaves again under the pretence of getting water but really she just doesn’t want to be there watching Mélie get undressed. That seems… too much. Entirely too much.

Mélie, gods damn her, knows this exactly and her fond laughter follows her. There’s a second wash basin in the bath room, she uses it to splash her face, cups some in her palms to drink and blinks down at the water for a long moment before going back to the other room.

The first thing Mélie asks is, “I’ve always wanted to know, how do you sleep with those braids in? Don’t they hurt to lie on?”

“It’s more effort to do them up every day,” she huffs, sliding down beside her. “I’m used to it.”

Mélie hums but doesn’t speak, just tucks her face into Amicia’s shoulder.

“Mélie?”

She hums again.

“Are we alright?”

“Yes, Amicia.” Her laugh vibrates through Amicia’s chest. “We’re gonna be fine.”

Sleep isn’t elusive at _all_ that time.

\--

And when she sees her mother before the feast the next day, she realises something very important: she won’t have to have the awful conversation to explain that she and Mélie aren’t involved. Because now they are.

As they should be.

\--

\--

(Mélie brings back her new dress, and from within one deep pocket she pulls a pair of wooden toys; one carved into a knight and the other a strange monstrous creature. She ruffles Hugo’s hair when he bounds out to meet them upon their return and says, “Happy birthday.” He beams at her. And so does Amicia.)


End file.
